“I Am Fucking My Art” by Caroline Rothstein
When I am on the hunt, I hunt. It is a Saturday night in Manhattan and I am roaming Midtown for a sports bar and a plate of French fries. I tell myself I’m also looking to get hit on. One could say I’m looking to fuck. I leave my phone in my mother’s hotel room. She’s here for work. I want a charged phone when I get back, along with the liberating stench of feeling like a tourist in my own home. No Google. No Yelp. No default humans on the other side when I feel too vulnerably alone. I Googled “sports bars” before I left. I head to one on 50th Street and Third Avenue. I take a...